The bleeding feet

I was afraid of the sudden prospect that came upon me. The thought of having to walk until my feet is bloody. Having searched so hard, and been unsuccessful, dragging my bloody feet on the ground with a hole in my heart. When you give your heart, you open yourself up to pain. Each time, you split, until there is not much room left  for yourself. 

Now, I don’t want this. And I think, I am capable of steering clear of this. But what if deep down, this is the only way I know? What if depravity is my only drive? Then I would knowingly choose the way that leads to frustration so I can be motivated by the void it creates in my heart.

Is vacuum my engine? Do I want anything else? Am I so used to this, that I have forgotten how to stop and turn around? I know what I was like from a very young age. The soul is the same, whether the body is young or old. It was always, wondering around, looking for something in which it can lose itself . A form of escape perhaps. An escape from what? from the omnipresent eyes that followed me around since even before I was born.

The feet, the heart and the eyes. One bleeds, one deceives and the other judges. 

If I don’t turn around, a heartache. Lethal. Turn around, and drag your feet to walk upright and straight on the land which will heal its wounds.